Not Your Average Hero
by Lady Serpensortia
Summary: He wasn't what you'd call your average hero. His life was anything but.


**Not Your Average Hero**   
Lady Serpensortia

  
A/N~ This ficlet is not reccomended for kiddies, or anyone who doesn't like graphic abuse, drug use, etc. There is also a large amount of swearing in this. If it bothers you, you have been warned to turn back now! As well, there is absolutely **_NO_** offence intended to the Jewish community by the Hitler reference in this fic.   
  
Disclaimer~If I actually owned this, then would I really be writing fanfiction when I could be off laughing about the fact that I'm richer than the Queen of England? I don't think so!   


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There is no such thing as the perfect family. No such thing as a loving home, no such thing as having people who care. All this and more have become the life lessons of the Boy-Who-Didn't-Want-To-Live. Sure, he had done all the shit that the world expected of him, but where had it gotten him? Back to the goddamn Dursleys, that's where. Back to another summer of torture, rape, and death in a joint. Bloody fucking wonderful.   
Harry James Potter was the saviour of the wizarding world, Hero of the Resistance, teen idol, and more than half-dead at the moment. After all, it was Thursday, the un-official Beat-Harry-Into-A-Bloody-Pulp Day. After all, who gave a rat's ass if it was his birthday, or if tomorrow was Friday, Rape-Harry Day? Certaily not his so-called friends. They had't even bothered to owl him. Fat lot of good _they_ were.   
Harry tried to roll over without crushing his probably broken shoulder. Unfortunately, intentions counted for nothing when it came to being silent. A jolt of pain speared through his shoulder, blinding him to everything but the agony of his own body. He kept moving over, looking for something to slow the pain. His bloodied hands finally found a small phial of morphine that Harry had 'rescued' from Aunt Marge's stash of her 'cure-all', or what Harry knew to be illicit drugs. He groped for the cap, praying to whatever gods were listening that he wouldn't lose his saviour. Twistig it off with all the ease he could muster, he gently placed it on his pillow. He reached again for his straight razor blade, convincing himself all the while that this was for his own good. After a month of this same conversation with himself, he nearly believed it.   
His blade held shakily in his unhurt left hand, he slowly drew it across the skin of his right wrist, revelling in the coppery tang of his own blood. Slowly, he complemented the line of angry redness with others of a matching shade of crimson. Carefully Harry grasped the phial containing the morphine, hoping there was enough left in it to stone himself senseless for the next two or three days. However, in the back of his mind, he knew his chances were roughly equal to a snowman's chances in Hell. Fuck.   


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Unfortunately, the Dursleys seemed to have the memory retention of an elephant, instead of a goldfish. Harry just stayed quiet during Vernon's daily rant about how Hitler would've done better if he'd tried to extermiate the 'unnatural' people in the world. The only time Harry had told him about Grindelwald trying to do just that ended with him being in a coma for three days. Goddamn depraved bastards hadn't even forced some water down his throat, just left him in his cupboard to slowly become dehydrated and wake up to find himself nearly dead again.   
Today, however, Vernon's rage on the state of the world ended differently. "Today, you little fucker," he raved, "we're going to start getting rid of _your lot_. We have to start somewhere, so why not with their precious _saviour_?" Dudley grinned maniacally, and Petunia cawed her amusement. Slowly, each of them drew their favourite instrument of torture out from behind their backs. Petunia held her bullwhip menacingly, and Dudley slipped his brass knuckles onto his hands maliciously. Vernon, however, had decided to change his usual armament to a long, deadly sharp knife. Harry just stared at it as his uncle laughed like a deranged man.   
Harry felt Petunia's rawhide whip slash across his back, re-opening old wounds from a week ago. Petunia raged at Harry while she whipped him to within a scant few inches of his life. Dudley joined in the merriment, landing a solid blow across his right cheekbone, shattering it on contact. Apparently, all those boxing championships were put to good use after all.   
A signal from Vernon stopped them all in their tracks. Harry lay on his stomach, swearing like there was no tomorrow. He didn't particularily care right then, as there appeared to be no tomorrow for him anyways. He tried to look Vernon in the eye, to show some mediocre measure of his resignedness to his would-be murderer. Unfortunately, said murderer wasn't all that impressed by his nephew's showing. Slowly, he started to inch toward him, knife raised menacingly, and the gleam of a madman trying to slake his bloodlust in his eyes.   
His knife started to plunge downward, arcing towards Harry's throat. The victim i question screamed, losing control of his muscles for a moment. He would never know the aptness of his final thoughts.   
_'Shit, this is going to hurt like a bitch...'_   


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"On July 31st, 1980, a life that would touch us all was born. His life did touch us all, as a friend, student, Quidditch Captain, classmate, hero. He was our shining star, our light to guide us from the dark times we faced. That is most assuredly a heavy burden to place upon an eleven-year-old's shoulders, yet Harry Jameson Potter bore it with a strength and resiliency I had never seen before, nor do I expect to see again.   
"For seventeen years, Harry carried the weight of an entire race. When the day came to shoulder that responsibility, he did what he had to do. Harry Potter gave everyone here, and many that aren't, a chance to lead a normal life.   
"The biggest mistake made, and there were many made, have no doubt about it, was in forcing a hero to go to a home where he was not welcome. My folly caused a life in its prime to be cut down in cold blood. I tell you this with more sorrow than I have ever felt before. Before, I couldn't change the outcome of the situation. This time, I caused the outcome, and I regret the day that I made myself see something that could never be there.   
"So I ask you all now to raise a toast to our saviour. To Harry Jameson Potter, July 31st, 1980 to July 31st, 1998. A life given so that others may live. _Slainte!_"   
And with that final note, Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, Hero of the Resistance, teen idol, and lost soul, was laid to rest.   


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So, enjoy? Leave me your comments, please!   
  
Hugz,   
Lady Serpensortia 


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